


The Haunting on Graymalkin Lane

by keire_ke



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Gen, Haunted Houses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keire_ke/pseuds/keire_ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No man peeks through the veil that separates the dead from the living, from either end, if there is another end. If, however, people are superstitious enough to hire Erik Lehnsherr to repair noisy staircases and draughty windows while paying him to rid their house of ghosts, he would be mad to disabuse them of their beliefs. No matter how many times Mr Marko crosses himself when he utters the address Salem Centre, 1407 Graymalkin Lane, Erik refuses to believe there are ghosts residing there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Haunting on Graymalkin Lane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pearl_o](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Marvels and Skeptics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/552252) by [pearl_o](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/pseuds/pearl_o). 



> A very special thank-you to ninemoons92 and mir-rcha, who betaed and helped me panic my way through this story, respectively! <3

The rain came down in spatters; fat droplets shattered upon impact, revealing themselves to be dense galaxies of water particles orbiting a luminous centre. The light came from the sun's last rays, fractured and refracted through hundreds, thousands of prisms, slow and thick as honey as a result.

Beautiful as the spectacle was, Erik was beyond glad he was safely hidden within a train compartment. The weather was cold, even though it was spring already, and standing out there for any length of time at all would result in a thorough drenching, a fate he avoided even at the height of summer. He was alone in the compartment, as not many people had chosen to travel on that particular evening and Erik had managed to discourage a particularly obnoxious individual from settling on the bench opposite. He hadn't been disturbed even by the conductor, but there was still time. Hours, in all likelihood, as this particular stretch of tracks boasted the fewest stations in all of Britain.

Erik's solitary journey was coming to a swift end, when he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the train floor and the door to the compartment slid open moments later. Erik looked up at the newcomer, his hand on the ticket in his breast pocket. It was not the conductor, however, but a fellow passenger, a man in fine, rich clothes and coiffed hair, whose eyes immediately found Erik's.

"Good afternoon," the man said, sliding smoothly into the compartment. "I apologise for the intrusion, but my own compartment was invaded by the most objectionable character."

Erik carefully hid his disappointment. He couldn't exactly force anyone to leave him in solitude, as this was a train, not a private accommodation. In any case, the man seemed like a respectable fellow, if a bit of a dandy, considering the fine fabrics and carefully arranged locks upon his forehead.

"Do you mind?" the man asked, as though struck by a sudden bout of conscience.

Erik shook his head. "It would be uncivilised of me not to offer shelter from objectionable characters even in my own home," he said, slipping easily into charm and superficial seduction, as though he were charming a client into giving up his money.

"Thank you." The man carried no luggage, not even a pocket watch. At first glance Erik was certain he spied a chain sneaking from the burgundy waistcoat pocket and between buttons, but he could sense no metal on the newcomer and now that he sought it, he couldn't see it either. A trick of the light, then. "This is a terrible time for travel, isn't it?"

"Seeing that we are snug in a train and not outside, we did not pick the worst option."

"True, but wouldn't anyone be much happier by a fireplace, in such weather?"

"I wouldn't decline a scotch, if that's what you mean, but otherwise I'm perfectly comfortable." Erik adjusted the flap of his suit, which he dislodged while reaching for the ticket, and resisted the urge to smooth out his hair, particularly when he saw the other man looking in his direction.

"Are you travelling on business?" the man asked. "If you don't mind my curiosity, that is."

"I don't mind." Erik wasn't the most talkative of men, but even he got lonely. A conversation with a handsome stranger was just the medicine he required. "Business." Then, foreseeing the question which would undoubtedly follow, "I deal with hauntings."

The stranger sent him a piercing look. "Are you heading to the Xavier house, by any chance?"

"Is it that famous?"

"Not nationwide, but we are within sixty miles of Salem and, if you forgive me saying so, you are a well-dressed man. I doubt you would bother visiting a place any less glamorous."

Glamorous? Mr Marko was a dreadful brute with limited planning skills: Erik had imagined the house being run into the ground by vermin and possibly vagrants. "Funny how glamour wasn't mentioned in the confidential. I was given to understand the place was a ruin and the haunting made restoration impossible."

"And you are the man to lay spirits to rest?" Unless Erik was much mistaken, there was a bitter amusement in the man's voice. "Do you coax them into an open grave with a dim candle and gently sing them to eternal rest?"

"Hardly. I don't believe in ghosts."

"What a curious profession you have taken up, in that case."

Erik let a shrug answer for him. "I'm no charlatan. Hauntings inevitably turn out to have a prosaic cause, be it loose screws, or a rat infestation. There're people who wouldn't accept that, so if a candle makes them feel better while I fix the actual problem, I don't see any harm in it."

"When you put it that way, I have a hard time disagreeing." The man let out a small laugh, shaking his head as he did so. "Me, I find it difficult to dismiss the idea that something awaits beyond the veil."

"Whatever that may be," Erik said, "I very much doubt the dead would be turning back to disturb the living."

"Don’t you believe that a man can have no rest, even in death?"

"I believe that such a man has no understanding of a concept of death," Erik said. There had been many dead in his past, and one who had even died at his hands, but whatever the manner of their demise it was hard to ignore the stillness that took them eventually. "It is the living who put their disquiet in the dead, not the other way around."

"Sometimes the dead cling to the world, nonetheless," the man said, watching Erik intently.

"That's true." Erik folded his hands across his chest. "But given their ghostly nature I'd think they couldn't cling too hard. Wouldn't the ghostly fingers slip through the solid flesh and bone?" He offered the stranger a small smile, quite possibly the most genuine smile he'd given a human being in a long while.

His companion laughed. "I don't think it's meant to be taken quite so literally."

"Whyever not? If ghosts do exist, why shouldn't they make the most of it?"

"By make the most of it do you mean scaring the people who loved them most?"

"Honestly now, if you were to haunt the people you loved, would you choose to frighten them, or bring them comfort?" Erik leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. The man opposite remained tucked into the corner between the glass and the plush seat, but his gaze followed Erik's every move. "There's no ghost that tortures the living as much as the living torture themselves, and lay the blame at the ghosts' feet. Or plasma emission which keeps them afloat, I really don't think ghosts have feet."

"For once I find myself without an argument." The stranger averted his eyes momentarily and it seemed to Erik that he ceased breathing altogether. The moment passed and the handsome face turned to Erik again, and he was treated to another prolonged consideration, following which the man tilted his head and said, "Aren't you tired? You seem tired."

"I don't sleep well on trains," Erik told him, but it was partly a lie: he could scarcely keep his eyes open. He'd slept very little during the past two nights, and then actively resisted sleep for the duration of this train trip.

"I promise I will see no harm come to you," the stranger said, his voice low, soothing, and intimate.

"That's kind of you to offer," Erik muttered and surprised himself by letting his head rest against the wall. The backrests were soft and the thick material of the curtains surprisingly comfortable, and Erik found himself drifting off.

He startled awake not long after, having taught himself at an early age that sleeping without a locked door between him and the world was a mistake, but to his surprise when he looked out the window his gaze met a void. The night had set in while he slept, and with the cloud cover remaining as thick as it had been earlier, he seemed to be travelling through emptiness, out of which water emerged to assault the glass that separated them.

Erik sat up straight and slowly ran his hands down his sides. No, his wallet, his watch and everything in it had not been touched. He hardly needed to check, as even in the deepest sleep he would feel someone taking anything metal from him, but physical reassurances had become a habit. The compartment was otherwise empty. Peculiar. Maybe the man found him as objectionable as he found the previous travelling companion. Doubtful, as Erik would stake a hefty sum of money if asked whether his company was enjoyed, but possible.

Still, it was not his place to chart the comings or goings of passengers on a train, especially since the train was now coming to a stop. Erik gathered his bag and suitcase, cast a displeased look at the soaked world outside, and stepped out of his compartment. The conductor opened the door for him, wishing him a safe journey, and Erik took advantage of the cover of darkness to open his umbrella with his gift and hold it afloat likewise.

The little station was empty, not surprising at this hour. Ticking filled its dark corners, faint, repetitive, mechanical ticks, each one taking the barest fraction of a second longer than the previous to arrive. Erik stood and listened to the turning cogs. There should be a carriage waiting for him; the train was on time, and while his employer, Mr Marko, didn't strike Erik as a particularly organised gentleman (or, in fact, a gentleman at all), he did manage to name the station correctly, allowing Erik to request a carriage via a telegram. It was true he'd cross himself every time he avoided mentioning the mansion's exact address, but since the superstition didn't keep him from writing it down, Erik played along.

It had to be said: Erik wasn't too proud to admit part of the reason he eventually settled into his profession was that he could snidely deride the stupid in the privacy of his own head.

A horse's neigh startled him out of the recollection of Mr Marko, an unpleasant brute pretended to lofty airs, and directed his steps outside, where a phaeton awaited. The driver sat shivering on the box, wrapped in several layers of wool and a coat besides.

"Salem Centre, Graymalkin Lane, please," Erik said, climbing into the poorly shielded seat with his luggage. "Number 1407."

"The Xavier mansion? Sir, are you certain? My wife and I rent clean rooms, cheap."

"I'm expected there," Erik said.

"It's a bad place. Haunted say some, cursed say others."

"I won't be persuaded. Salem Centre, please. The sooner we get there, the sooner you will find yourself home again."

The driver nodded and urged the horses on. They travelled long enough that Erik was starting to regret his dismissal of a warm room in a village house; the carriage had been shielded from the elements, but the people responsible for the shielding evidently believed the elements couldn't amount to more than a damp fog, and so in the splattering rain Erik found himself getting increasingly wet.

He could only hope the last resident of the mansion had managed to store wood he hadn't used up before departure.

It was close to midnight when the carriage paused before an iron gate, and the driver took a sharp breath. "We are here, sir."

Erik looked out through the rain. "The mansion is at least a mile from here. You don't expect me to walk in the rain."

"Sir, the gate is locked."

"I have a key," Erik lied easily, grabbing an umbrella with which he'd been sharing the backseat. "Take me to the door and you're free to go."

The driver looked at Erik, then out into the darkness which presumably hid the house. His pallor was evident, even in the scant light of the lamp, and the fright palpable, so Erik continued in a softer voice. "Look at the horses. It's a well-known fact that a ghostly presence would spook a horse, yet yours are perfectly calm. We are as safe on the grounds as we are on the road."

It was child's play to shield the lock with his body and think it open. Erik returned to the carriage and shook the water from his umbrella. "The front door, please."

The driver complied without a word, taking some comfort in the calm demeanour of his horses. Erik smiled to himself. People were a frightful bunch of fools when confronted with fantasies, but a well-raised horse could be prevailed upon to remain calm and therefore a persuasive evidence of safety.

"Thank you, my friend," he said when the carriage stopped by the stone steps. "Here's your fee. Don't mind the gate; I will deal with it in the morning."

"Godspeed, sir," the driver said, tipping his cap and driving away in a hurry. Erik didn't bother to watch him go, preoccupied with the water splattering on the brim of his hat. Fortunately the lock was not so rusted it would keep him out and in a moment or two he was setting his luggage down on the floor of an enormous, dusty, but thankfully dry hall. Alone as he was he felt no compunction against lifting his bags with his mind and having them trail him to the kitchens, where, to his delight, he discovered a stack of dry firewood and a small stove. He had packed some provisions, so he supped on canned beans and a few slices of bread, with only the crackling fire for entertainment.

Despite the nap he took on the train the hour was late. Luckily, next to the kitchen there was a small, neat room, which must have belonged to a cook or a maidservant, for there was still an old dress hanging in the wardrobe. It was cosy and surprisingly warm, besides, as it shared a wall with the stove. It would do nicely for his quarters, Erik thought, testing the bed with his power first and then his weight.

Huh. It was a comfortable bed. Erik had slept in a great variety of beds, or on things not resembling beds in the slightest, and considered himself something of an authority on the subject. This was a good bed, one that already sunk into his bones with the promise of hearty sleep. He sprung from the mattress to wash his face in the basin, the filling of which took precisely three minutes of standing with his arm outstretched outside the window, dusted the old covers and slipped inside.

He startled awake in the wee hours of the morning, woken, he was certain, by footsteps, but when he rolled out of bed and onto his feet there was no one in the vicinity, no one at all. His heart hammered wildly, but the dream that made it race was already forgotten. Erik stepped out into the hall, wearing only his underwear and armed with only his own gifts, paying close attention to the floor. Dust was his ally in the event that the hauntings were caused by a human hand, but this dust revealed nothing. The only marks were those he himself had left when he arrived late in the night.

He kept on looking, nonetheless, because there was less dust than he'd expect from an abandoned mansion, but there was nothing to be found. Save for the faint creak of the aged wood, far in the distance. Erik raised his eyes from the floor and startled, because far in the corner, half-hidden in the shadows, he beheld the shape of a monster with glowing eyes and great claws.

For a long moment he and the creature looked at one another, then Erik blinked and the apparition was gone.

"Fuck," Erik said eloquently, rubbing at his eyes. A wild dog infestation. Possibly even a wolf, since the creature had looked so big. This would certainly explain the mystique of the place; a few large wild animals in an empty mansion would create the illusion of a haunting like no loose floorboard ever could.

He returned to his little room to wash up and get dressed, before setting out for the village, in search of food and perhaps a horse he could rent for the duration of his stay. He was lucky – the small cluster of houses down by the lake not only provided him with a hearty breakfast as well as a basket of cold lamb, bread and pie, which the innkeeper woman assured him contained no pork whatsoever. Erik, who seldom trusted such assurances, sighed but took the pie anyway. Who knew, maybe this was an honest inn and the cook minded what she minced. The innkeeper even managed to find a dusty bottle of wine to accompany the food, which Erik nearly refused, hoping for something more vintage in the mansion's cellars. Common sense stopped him; a mansion of this size to have gone unoccupied for several years must naturally have been emptied.

"I hear you've come from the mansion," the woman who supplied his food said, displaying very little fear, compared to the driver from last night. Then again, she was Scottish, which Erik assumed from her speech. His personal experience with Scotsmen was that they were best left unchallenged, lest they take it upon themselves to become the challenge.

"I've been hired to inspect it on Mr Marko's behalf," Erik explained. "He intends to return to the property."

The woman frowned. "Mr Marko? The old man died in the fire some fifteen years ago."

"I've heard. No, it's his son who hired me."

A flicker of disgust crossed her face. "Ah," she breathed, and busied herself with the great accounting book.

"You don't approve of Mr Marko?"

"I question his claim," she said simply. "Young Master Xavier had a foster sister, whom he loved dearly. I don't believe he'd want his family fortune squandered, when it would have provided for a beloved sister."

"I've been assured Mr Marko's right to inheritance is unimpeachable." Granted, the assurance had come from Mr Marko himself, but then Erik was no solicitor. The man presented proof of his identity and with young Master Xavier lost to the war, he was the sole heir to the estate, as a foster sister would likely have no legal claim. Whether Mr Marko deserved the immense riches of the ancient mansion wasn't Erik's problem.

"I wouldn't know," the innkeeper said with a shrug of her shoulders, writing continuously. Her letters were even, small, and well-practiced, the columns impeccable, and, from the speed with which she filled out the spaces beneath the line, Erik surmised counting came to her more naturally than to some accountants he'd dealt with.  "We mourned when the news of Mr Xavier's death came. We didn't mourn when the ghosts chased Mr Marko away."

"Mr Xavier was a popular man, then?"

"He was kind." The woman smiled and finally set the pen down. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"I could use a horse. I might need to run some errands, and it would be inconvenient to stop by the village every time."

"Well, if you don't need to be going too fast, my horse should suit your needs. She won't win any races, but she is presentable enough and won't object to pulling a small cart."

"Thank you," Erik said. The horse, upon inspection, proved to be a docile mare, just past her prime. She nosed at Erik's cheek and happily took the offered cube of sugar, crunching it between her teeth with delight. "Good girl," Erik said, running a hand down her flank.

"She is called Banshee," the innkeeper said. "She was a fine racing horse, once, before she broke her leg. I couldn’t bear to part with her."

Banshee nudged Erik's shoulder in search of more sugar and let out a soft neigh of disappointment when she found none. "Later," he promised, stroking her nose.

* * *

He began his work by dropping his purchases off at the mansion, then taking Banshee around the property for an inspection of the perimeter. The gardens, as he'd heard someone refer to the two or three acres of greenery around the mansion, were surrounded by an iron fence. It was intact for the most part, at least until he reached the north-east corner, where a fallen tree and wet ground managed to tear the iron from its stone moorings. That was a matter easily fixed. Erik closed his eyes to ensure no one was in the vicinity; hardly anyone ventured outdoors without a coin in their pocket or a brass button on their jacket.

Satisfied that he was alone, he dismounted and set about reshaping the cast iron with his mind. No one had touched the fence in a long time, which was a shame: the iron cried out for attention. The metal gave with only the slightest push and refolded, reaching out for its like, the remains embedded in stone, curling and moulding together until the fence was unbroken, like new. Erik looked back at Banshee, who'd watched the spectacle with quiet understanding in her brown eyes.

"And now you know," he said, jokingly, "my darkest secret."

Banshee tossed her head and stomped her hoof, then stretched her neck to nibble on the green buds on a nearby branch.

"Most people have a far worse reaction, you should know." Erik palmed the iron leaves on the spikes and looked at the horse. "I don't suppose you'd fancy a run?"

Banshee did fancy a run. It was true, she was not a racehorse any longer, but she took great pleasure in a steady, controlled gallop. She ran across the countryside, easily climbing a grassy knoll, and down towards the lake, where Erik had her break and drink.

"Fancy meeting you here, my friend," he heard all of a sudden. Erik stood from where he'd been perched on a moist tree trunk and looked about, frowning. He'd sensed nothing, no trace of brass or gold, yet the stranger from the train was staring down at him from the height of a tree stump.

"Good morning," Erik said cautiously. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

"My apologies. My name is Francis Pembroke."

"Erik Lehnsherr. Strange that we should meet like this here," Erik said. "I don't believe you left the train at the same station I did." He was certain, in fact, that he'd been the only passenger to alight at Westchester Station.

The man, Mr Pembroke, tilted his head. Erik forced himself to ignore the lock of hair balancing on the edge of falling over his forehead. "I don't blame you; my travel itinerary is often a cause for confusion, for myself as well."

"Are you a native of these parts?"

"In a manner of speaking," Mr Pembroke said. "I'm here on business."

"Is your business with the Xavier mansion?"

Mr Pembroke smiled. It was a very thin smile, one that Erik was unfortunately forced to conclude was unbecoming of his generous mouth. No, such lips were made to grin and, if he were fully honest with himself, gasp. "You are very perceptive, Mr Lehnsherr," Mr Pembroke said, giving no hint that either was forthcoming.

Erik sensed a hint of a threat hanging in the air, subtle, still, and of legal nature. "I have been hired by Mr Marko, who is the heir to the estate, to do necessary repairs. I make no secret of it. My business does not interfere with yours."

"Unfortunately that is not the case." Mr Pembroke straightened and squared his shoulders. "The estate will not go to Mr Marko. I promise you this."

"I really don't care, Mr Pembroke. My fee has been paid, and, unless I decide the repairs to be beyond my skill, I will remain and see them done."

"The house doesn't want to be disturbed."

"The house doesn't get a vote," Erik said, striving to maintain a pleasant timbre. "Do you represent the late Mr Xavier?"

"I do." Mr Pembroke stepped off the tree stump, revealing he was a few inches shorter than Erik, but what he lacked in height he made up for in attitude. "It was his wish that the estate remain unchanged, awaiting his sister's return."

"All due respect, Mr Pembroke," Erik said, "but I've been hired by a man who presented me proof of his right to hire me." Following an unpleasantness early in his career, Erik'd made a point of always insisting on seeing proof that a client who hired him to travel to a remote location and enter a strange house had papers necessary to support his claim.

"Mr Lehnsherr…"

"I think we are done." Erik reached for Banshee's reins. "You know where to find me, Mr Pembroke – I will be working at the house. I will depart the moment I am presented with proof that your credentials are worth more than Mr Marko's."

"Mr Lehnsherr, if you do not leave when asked politely, you will be threatened."

"Do your worst, Mr Pembroke," Erik said, casting a condescending look at the small man in his fine suit and shiny shoes, no weapons and no thugs to give his threats an air of plausibility. Instead he stood there alone, with his hands in the pockets of his woollen trousers and his inexplicably fancy silk vest on display. A strange choice of outfit for a stroll by a muddy lake, but then the man seemed like he had trouble letting go of a thought, and if he saw Erik on the road he might have hurried out from his office. Erik mounted Banshee, offered a curt nod and urged her forward, ducking his head when the tree branches grew dense at eye-level.

When he chanced a look back, Mr Pembroke was nowhere to be seen. Erik stopped the horse and, were there enough space on the narrow path, he would have turned her back, for there was nothing to see, no flash of red between the tree trunks, nor reflection on the water. The man had vanished utterly. "I'm entertaining doubts about this endeavour," he told Banshee and resolved to proceed with caution. He'd taken Mr Marko's money; the nature of his business was such that even one dissatisfied client could wreck him, and Erik liked his peculiar career. It suited his temperament and his desire to associate with as few people as possible, while allowing him to hone his particular gifts.

He returned to the house and, to his relief, he found that the stables were in as good a condition as the rest of the property; there was even a bag of oats, stored safely on an oak shelf. Banshee couldn't have been a happier horse.

Erik returned to the main building and ate his lunch, feeling uncharacteristically shaken. He'd walked around the grove when he first found it, and he found it empty and devoid of hiding spots. It was remote, too, and not easily accessible, certainly not to a man in shiny shoes and clean trousers. What kind of a man wandered around the countryside in anything of this nature? A foolish one, certainly, or one with no understanding of a world beyond cobbles and pavements. Furthermore, Erik had spent only a few minutes walking around and his boots were caked with thick mud. Mr Pembroke's shoes still looked like they arrived at the lake straight out of a servant's hands.

The sense of foreboding was back, slithering through the faint cracks, like a fog on a November night, and Erik sat in it, staring down at his empty plate. What if…

"Enough," he said out loud. He had a job to do here and ghosts did not exist. Perhaps Mr Pembroke was talented at climbing trees and avoided the mud that way. His imagination pacified, Erik finished his meal down to the last crumb. Even though the kitchen had been deserted for a while, something about it made him hungry, as though the aromas of meals past still wafted through the air.

After he cleaned the plate and the utensils he'd been using he began the arduous process of locating the structural imperfection that would have accounted for the haunting. He liked to start with the basement, as that was where he'd usually find the least troubles, surprisingly: errant flora and fauna, at most, nothing bigger than rats and perhaps tree roots. There was little danger of the latter, as the trees stood a substantial distance from the mansion, but still worth checking.

Careful investigation revealed a dusty wine cellar, half-empty, and with plenty of space. The mansion looked like it had been built on top of another mansion, one designed for the vampire gentleman. Erik rolled his eyes at aristocracy and their follies, but pressed on, and within a couple of hours he was forced to conclude the basement had been the work of a construction savant: though the skeleton was old, there wasn't a part of it that didn't fit together with whatever was surrounding it, and even the charred remains of a laboratory, hidden behind a locked door, looked structurally sound.

Erik worked his way up the floors with increasing uneasiness. It looked like there wouldn't be much for him to do, at least until he got to the attic – there was always something to do in the attic, in his experience. Pigeon infestation, at least. Maybe mice. Rats in the walls? No, he'd spent a good hour listening to the house in silence and there was very little in terms of noise. Or things in need of repair. Everything was perfectly preserved, awaiting a new master. What was he even doing there, Erik wondered as he climbed the grand staircase, stomping on the steps to make sure no board was loose. There was nothing. He also found nothing beneath the carpeting or on the walls, or in any of the rooms along the corridor leading north. Until…

At the end of the corridor there was a locked door. Erik gestured at it; the lock turned and the door swung open. None of the other doors had been locked, not even the library, which to Erik's casual expertise contained thousands of pounds worth of precious metals, rare volumes and an exquisite piano. That door was wide open, propped open, even. This room, however, looked like an ordinary bedroom. It'd been straightened out some: the bed had been made, the personal items set upon shelves, the dresses and other items of clothing – Erik slammed the drawer shut, not quite blushing, but not quite willing to go through ladies' undergarments – safely stowed away. There were several dolls on the shelves, grey with dust, following him with their empty gaze, and not much else.

"You cannot be here."

Erik turned, surprised. Mr Pembroke was standing on the threshold, his fists curled at his sides. "You cannot be here," he repeated, still in the same hushed whisper, hot and dangerous like flaming coals.

"Mr Pembroke," Erik said civilly. "You surprised me."

"Walk out of here right now."

"Sir, all due respect, we have had this conversation. No."

"Get out!" The man made no move towards Erik, but the crushing weight of his anger struck Erik all the same. It was thick and viscous and for a moment Erik felt as though all the air had been forcibly expelled from his lungs.

He straightened with difficulty, and called to his hand the poker which stood by the fireplace.

Mr Pembroke didn't so much as blink.

"You will cease this," Erik growled, one hand pressing against his own heaving chest.

"Get out of her room." Mr Pembroke was coming apart at the seams; he shook like a leaf as he beheld the dusty dolls and the open wardrobe, filled with frills and ribbons.

"Mr Pembroke," Erik began, but then, before his very eyes, the man had dissolved into thin air, and he continued, one word at a time: "What. Is. The matter?"

The man was, indubitably, gone. There was no machinery in the room, no glass or mirrors Erik had seen employed for such a purpose; one moment there was a man standing at the door, the next he had disappeared without a trace. Erik might have been a sceptic, but he believed the testimony of his own eyes, when he could find no hint they were being deceived.

"All right," Erik said to himself, out loud, if only to give his brain something to do. "It may be that I have just witnessed a ghost."

Nothing in the room itself had changed: yet everything was different. Erik looked around with new eyes and happened upon a photo on the writing desk. He used his fingers to wipe the grime off the surface of the glass, revealing a young man – a child, really – clutching a dark-skinned girl, a few years his junior, around the waist. But the girl was more than dark-skinned, Erik realised immediately. Her hair seemed to be lighter in colour than the roses she was holding, and her eyes lacked irises. There were marks on her skin: not scars, but clearly defined oblong shapes, in regular patterns, almost like scales.

The boy could only be Francis Pembroke, or else a twin. The smile was the same Erik imagined on Mr Pembroke a few hours earlier, open and honest, ripe with youth and joy, and even though the picture was black and white the mouth couldn't be anything but red. Erik opened the back of the frame and there on the back of the picture, in a curvy, feminine hand, it was written "Charles and Raven Xavier, May 1890."

Charles Xavier.

Erik clutched the poker in his hand as he stared at the girl and her peculiar colouring, and a curious thought sprang into his mind: why, he was holding an iron implement that he could fold in two with a thought. What if there were people out there with similar gifts? What if there were people out there with _different_ gifts? What if there were people who could disappear from sight, entirely? People whose skins were covered in scales?

He strode from the room with the poker held in a fist. "Show yourself!" he yelled, turning in place. "I know you are alive."

There was no answer, at first, but as he stretched his mind he perceived the movement of steel on the ground floor. He rushed down the stairs, eager for an explanation, at least, but he'd be lying if he claimed he didn't feel the excitement of possibly meeting another one who shared his gifts. The steel he sensed was in a room he was only now realising he'd missed during his sweep of the ground floor, and as he approached he almost turned back again. There was nothing good waiting within, he told himself. Nothing of interest. Keep away, this was not the place he sought.

"No," he said out loud. "Quiet. I know it's you."

The doubts evaporated. Instead, the door opened and Erik took a deep breath as he beheld the creature that stepped out to greet him, for it was unlike anything he'd ever seen. It was dressed like a gentleman; the trousers, the vest, all of fine wool, and there were small, round glasses perched on its feline nose. There were no shoes on its feet, but that Erik found perfectly reasonable, as the creature had the feet of a jaguar with claws to match.

All of it that he could see was covered in blue fur.

"This is a surprise," he said mildly, gripping the poker tight.

"I won't harm you," the creature said in a soft, kind voice, which was nonetheless indistinguishable from that of a human man. "I don't want to scare you, either, but I can't quite control my appearance."

"It was you I saw last night."

"Yes. I apologise if I frightened you. I am…" the man-beast hesitated. "My name is Doctor Henry McCoy. I'm Mr Xavier's personal physician."

"So for that reason you are holed up here, pretending to be a ghost?"

"I'm sure you can imagine why I was forced to relinquish my practice," Dr McCoy said bitterly. He flexed his hand, and the light of the lamp he was holding danced on the tips of his claws. "I wish you would leave. Charles is my friend, my benefactor. I will not let you hurt him."

"I have no intention of hurting anyone," Erik said, finally letting go of the poker, which sailed back up the stairs and dropped to the floor. "If he truly is Charles Xavier, then the mansion is his. Mr Marko was wrong in his claims and I will depart at once, but I will speak with Mr Xavier about this."

Dr McCoy hesitated, but stepped aside. "Come on in, then. But be warned: Charles doesn't speak much these days."

Erik nodded at the man, secure in knowing that there were brass buttons on his vest and a watch in one of the pockets, so that he could feel the man's position at all times, not that he feared the man-beast. He stepped into the room, into which a setting sun was painting every surface gold, save the dark shadow cast by a lone figure in a wheelchair.

The man was slumped in his seat and only half-present by the vacant look in his eyes. "Mr Xavier?" Erik asked, coming closer. Once more there was a peculiar sensation in his mind, as though something foreign was taking root, something painful and awash in despair. Erik took a step forward and collapsed, only narrowly managing to catch himself.

He couldn't feel his legs. He couldn't—

"I'm sorry," Mr Xavier whispered. As though a spell had lifted, the feeling in Erik's extremities returned, and the golden field of grass reformed into a room, no longer spattered with blood and shattered with gunshots. There was still the memory of a body in his lap, a young, blue-skinned woman in a lieutenant's uniform, dearest, beloved, gone, but then it, too, disappeared, faded from the world like a mirage. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for you to see this."

Erik slowly pulled his legs underneath him, but remained crouched on the floor, looking up into Mr Xavier's astonishing blue eyes. This was, without a doubt, the very same man who introduced himself as Francis Pembroke, then inexplicably dissolved into the air – though admittedly, this one wasn't as well-groomed. Charles Xavier's hair hung around his face in unwashed streaks, he hadn't shaved in days, and the state of his attire was such that any self-respecting man-servant would have committed suicide out of shame at the mere sight.

"Mr Xavier," Erik began and fell silent. His hand was still on Mr Xavier's knee. He removed it post haste, but couldn't make himself do likewise, so he remained kneeling on the floor, spellbound.

"You have a very beautiful mind, Mr Lehnsherr," Mr Xavier said eventually. "I apologise for trespassing."

Erik didn't understand. He turned to Dr McCoy when Mr Xavier fell silent, and Dr McCoy answered his silent question: "Charles—Mr Xavier is a telepath. He can communicate directly through the mind, much like you can move items."

"Iron," Erik corrected absentmindedly. "Things made of metal."

"I see," Mr Xavier said, unexpectedly, and a strong hand carded through Erik's hair. "The very earth guides you, like a compass needle."

Erik nearly purred at the contact, as though he were a cat, stretched on a soft rug with the sun warming his fur. Even without the reminder of Dr McCoy's blueness and the ghost of Mr Pembroke he would have known these people were his ilk, that Mr Xavier was like him. His gift resonated, for a lack of a better word, pulsed like the lifeblood in his veins. Erik had never known anything like it.

"You introduced yourself as Pembroke," he said, solely to fill the silence for Dr McCoy's benefit.

"I desire no visitors, and letting my name slip might encourage people." Something in the words must have awoken Mr Xavier from his stupor, because he blinked and instantly the hand that was petting Erik's hair withdrew and the man sat up straighter in his wheelchair. "You must be hungry."

Erik'd eaten a hearty lunch, but it'd been a good while ago. "I could eat," he admitted, before his stomach could do likewise.

"Henry, could I possibly—"

"Certainly." Dr McCoy whirled in place and headed for the kitchen, leaving Erik and Mr Xavier alone.

"Goodness," Mr Xavier said, looking out the window. "What is the time?"

"It's nearing seven, I believe."

"Yet the sun is only now setting…"

"It is spring, Mr Xavier."

A melancholy look passed over the man's young face. "I can't say it shocks me." Then, as though to answer Erik's unspoken question, he added, "I'm afraid I devote too much time to wandering the world in my mind, and Hank is kind enough not to remind me of the passage of time."

"I wouldn't call it a kindness." Especially coming from a physician. Erik frowned as he looked at the door. He was beginning to see how the situation came about, how the war-wounds festered in this place. It had to be stopped.

"But I digress, again. Dinner will be served in an hour; surely you'd like to refresh yourself. Hank is an excellent cook."

Erik, who'd worked for most of the day, was indeed not fit to dine with a gentleman, even one as unkempt as Mr Xavier, and was glad of the reminder. "I'll take my leave, then."

"There's a bathroom on the first floor." Mr Xavier hesitated and cast a baleful look at his own knees. "I would offer the one nearest to your chosen bedroom – which choice, by the way, I must protest – but stairs are an impossibility in my condition, so I must reserve it for myself."

Erik offered a courteous bow when it became apparent that Mr Xavier would not move before Erik did, and departed. The bathroom, which he had not yet had the chance to inspect, was fitted with a thoroughly modern installation of pipes which disappeared into the floor in the corner. He could tell they led to the kitchen, which was directly below, and to a large boiler installed there, which, even as he considered it, was heating up.

He took the time to wash himself thoroughly, grateful for the excuse to soak in a bathtub. Such chances were few and far between, in his life, but, as it turned out, he wasted very little time. He emerged from the bathroom refreshed and headed for the kitchen, and it was chance that brought him to the other bathroom. The door was open and inside Mr Xavier was balancing on the edge of his chair in order to reach the faucets. The failure was putting him in a sour mood, which was in turn unfairly comical, as the man had shaved, but neglected to wash the remainder of soap from his face. The white wisps clung to the curve of his jaw, the streaks of his hair, even the back of the wrist, where it must have been brushed off in impatience, altogether a picture in equal parts funny and inappropriate in its humour.

"Mr Xavier?" Erik waited until he was acknowledged before stepping in, noting with little surprise that Mr Xavier had already begun to disrobe, and was wearing nothing but a thin undershirt and trousers. Perhaps unsurprisingly, considering the man was confined to a wheelchair, the musculature of his upper body wasn't what Erik would have expected of an isolated outcast who spent his days daydreaming. The muscles formed elegant, firm curves under the pale skin, showing proudly the strength contained therein by a spatter of freckles. "If I may assist…"

There was a brief moment of indecision, but then Mr Xavier nodded. "If you could turn the faucets for me." Erik didn't even bother reaching out. The faucets turned until hot water was spewing into the brass tub.

"Can I offer you any further assistance, Mr Xavier?"

"I do not require a valet, Mr Lehnsherr," Mr Xavier said firmly, but his eyes strayed, travelling smoothly up from Erik's wrists to his arms, shoulders and neck, only to finally meet his gaze. "In any case, if that was an offer, I don't think you are suited for the post."

"I have many talents."

"I don't doubt that, but I'd be loath to take you away from your vocation."

"Hardly. I'd of course need to inform Mr Marko that the house is occupied by its rightful owner, I'm sorry to say."

Mr Xavier let out a sigh. "I suppose there's no way around it." He dipped a hand into the tub. "That's enough, thank you," he said. They stared at one another for a minute, until Mr Xavier coughed and, hiding a smile, added, "I'd like to bathe now, Mr Lehnsherr."

"Naturally." Erik withdrew from the bathroom, feeling his face burn. He closed the door behind him and went for the kitchen, where Dr McCoy was proving his worth as a cook with produce from a cupboard of whose existence Erik had been made unaware.

The dinner was a pleasant affair. Mr Xavier had emerged from the bathroom clean-shaven and with his long hair washed and combed back. He was wearing a clean shirt and a vest which Erik had come to expect from Mr Pembroke, though truth be told Mr Xavier had already managed to outshine Mr Pembroke, whether through his incandescent presence or brilliant blue eyes.

Dr McCoy surprised Erik, in turn, firstly by the quality of the meal, but even such talent had to be secondary, when a far greater mystery awaited: Erik had arrived at the dining table to discover a young gentleman, perhaps Mr Xavier's age, laying the settings. He'd opened his mouth to ask, but then he observed the watch and the vest – this was without a doubt Dr McCoy himself, yet there was not a hint of blue on his skin.

"If I'm calm," the doctor had said, anticipating Erik's question, "I manage to retain my human appearance."

By the end of the meal Erik concluded his wit must have been not at all stimulating, as Dr McCoy held on to his appearance throughout dinner, at least until, over dessert, Mr Xavier set aside his utensils and with great reluctance turned to his physician.

"Henry, you've been a great friend to me, but I fear Mr Lehnsherr has made a very good point." This was news to the gentleman in question, who recalled making no points whatsoever. "It's been almost two years."

Dr McCoy's handsome face took on a blue tinge. "I don't want to forget," he said quietly.

"Good heavens, I wouldn't expect you to! But it might be the time to begin moving forward." Mr Xavier raised his glass and took a sip. "Mr Lehnsherr, as I understand it, you have some form of a monetary obligation in regards to Cain Marko?"

"Nothing I can't return." The sum was hefty, but Erik was not the kind to spend money on a whim, so he had most of it in his wallet, and the difference was immaterial – he'd been forced to abandon the task by circumstances beyond his control.

"Out of the question. That is, naturally, whatever sum of money Mr Marko had already paid you needs to be returned, but I will reimburse you in full. Furthermore," he continued, forestalling Erik's protest, "I'd like to commission your service for a small matter."

"Which would be?"

"I'd like you to clean Raven's room," Mr Xavier said in a firm voice, though it cracked at the name. "Personal effects of no use to anyone should be burned; the toys can be given to a girl in the village, and the same with the dresses, if they are still in good enough condition." He paused. "If there are any books, there is a library."

Dr McCoy had been frowning throughout the speech, blue from head to toe, but in the end, he, too, nodded. "It—It would be for the best." It was a strange sight, for a great beast with claws and teeth to seem desolate, but there he was, sitting across from Erik.

Erik, for his part, readily agreed to dealing with the room, glad to make himself useful and possibly justify his presence for another day or so. It would have to wait until morning, in any case, and he told Mr Xavier as much, expecting the distracted fluttering of words and gestures that followed, but delighting in it all the same.

"I wouldn't dream of forcing it upon you," Mr Xavier said, leaning towards him. "Another thing: you seem to have chosen the room by the kitchen for your bedroom, when I can assure you the mansion has far superior accommodation."

"I came here for a job, Mr Xavier. The room is adequate."

"This may be true, but I have put you out of the job, so I'd much rather you stayed as my guest. Although, I grant you, you will have to wait on yourself, as I have no staff."

Erik shook his head. "I don't mind, believe me."

Mr Xavier folded his hands on the edge of the table and stared down at them. Every now and then his gaze would flit to Erik and then back to his calloused fingertips, but the pauses were growing longer and the vacant, faraway look began to cloud his gaze. "Mr Xavier," Erik said loudly.

"Oh! I apologise."

"No need," Erik said, looking at Dr McCoy, who seemed to be lost in his own little world, staring down at his half-empty plate.

Mr Xavier reached out to shake his friend, but thought better of it, and turned to Erik with a small smile, claiming exhaustion. "There is a library upstairs, to which you are welcome. I'll retire for the night." He nodded at Dr McCoy and pushed away from the table, rolling across the carpet and the wooden floors, into the dim corridor outside.

Erik watched him leave, spinning a fork idly an inch above his empty plate.

* * *

Early on the morrow Erik rose from his bed and, as promised, began to sort through the personal effects of Miss Raven Xavier. The job was easy, it turned out. Miss Xavier owned very little in terms of personal items. Her wardrobe was extensive, as befitting a daughter of a mansion of this size, but past the boxes of silks, satins and embroidered cotton there wasn't much. A clumsy attempt at a hand-stitched sash, the dolls he had previously noted, three letters bound with a yellow ribbon and tucked into a drawer of the writing desk, several loose sheets of paper on which someone had attempted a portrait of Mr Xavier and had fallen short (though on that account Erik had to give the young lady justice – no artist could hope to capture the vibrancy of his eyes, nor the pulsing, luminous presence that overshadowed his not inconsiderable good looks). A slim notebook, in which a diary was began and swiftly abandoned, kept invisible under a box of jewellery of considerable value.

"Do you need any help?"

Erik turned. Dr McCoy was standing in the door, trying to keep his eyes on Erik and not on anything else. "Thank you, but no," Erik told him, arranging the jewellery box on the desk. These would be sold immediately, as he could detect no item holding locks of hair or the like. "There isn't much to be dealt with here."

"No, Raven didn't really need much," Dr McCoy said, fidgeting. He was human-looking presently, but the blue tinge in his cheeks indicated he wouldn't stay so for long. "She was a shapeshifter. She wore clothes mostly because propriety demanded it, not out of need to keep warm."

Erik looked down at the doll he was about to pack away and then at the doctor. "When I met Mr Xavier last night I saw something. A woman on a battlefield. Her skin was blue, like yours."

Dr McCoy nodded. "That was Raven, yes. When Charles went to war, she went with him, though we begged and pleaded with her not to. She was a far better soldier than either of us, better than anyone." He trailed off and the unnatural blue shade of his skin receded, giving way to a healthy pink. "The war was no time to make grand declarations, of course, but she and I'd had an understanding that I would propose the moment we set foot on British soil."

"A young woman who goes to war and outshines her companions in bravery and skill wouldn't make a good wife for a respectable doctor," Erik noted. "Certainly not a happy one."

"We were young, and my condition hadn't yet been as pronounced. We thought of travel, missionary work." Dr McCoy looked at Erik through the faint sheen of tears. "But she was killed. Charles had been struck by a bullet in the back and she rushed to pull him to safety."

Erik had no words of comfort to offer, not when he could scarcely deal with his own painful memories. He nodded at the doctor, and returned to his task. When he next looked up, the man was gone.

There was little else to do, once the desk and the wardrobe had been cleared. Erik stripped the bed and took the bedding to the washing room, from where he fetched old sheets to cover the furniture. The dolls and the dresses he'd packed into a chest which he intended to take to the inn later that day – the woman there would know where they would be appreciated the most. The jewellery he took to the library on the ground floor, where Mr Xavier could decide for himself whether to sell the pieces (some of which would fetch a kingly price, Erik estimated – he knew his metals, and the medallion and the earrings boasted some particularly fine work), or keep them (for a few items could be family heirlooms). Finally, the papers meant for burning he took to the kitchen, but he found himself hesitating before the fire. They could wait, he thought, and set them aside, guided by a foggy thought he couldn't quite make sense of yet.

It came to him in bits and pieces over the following hour: first the shape of the idea occurred to him as he took a phaeton from the stables and loaded the chest onto it, followed by a definite notion that Mr Xavier and Dr McCoy, being grievously injured and a physician, respectively, might have been prevented from witnessing the burial. Without bearing witness to the event, no matter how persuasive the memory, wouldn't Miss Xavier haunt their thoughts as though she were still alive? Erik stood by the notion that the dead bothered no man, save he who chose to hold on to them too tight. Perhaps this, the clearing out of the locked room and burning the paper, would be the thing that would finally set Miss Xavier free.

Erik smiled to himself as he bid the inn-keeper goodbye and climbed the box of the phaeton, the plan solid in his mind. Laying ghosts to rest was, after all, his job.

* * *

Neither Mr Xavier nor Dr McCoy were enthusiastic when Erik presented them with the idea, but seemed to accept it with an air of weary resignation, and when Erik built a fire in the library they were both present.

"Do the honours, Henry," Mr Xavier said without looking up, as the fire consumed the dry logs.

"I couldn't, she was your sister!"

"Scripture tells us the bond of matrimony surpasses that of blood, and Raven and I weren't even that." Mr Xavier smiled thinly and then focussed, and immediately a fourth figure appeared in the airy library. The blue-skinned woman stood tall and proud, wearing a crisp uniform which only barely concealed her femininity. She took a step forward, reaching out to clasp Mr Xavier's outstretched hand. "Goodbye, Raven," he said softly, at which she smiled and told him, "Goodbye, Charles," and turned to Dr McCoy.

He trembled when the vision approached him, and his fingers lengthened into claws, piercing the papers he held. "Goodbye," he managed, swallowing tears, as he cast the letters and the diary into the flames. "Goodbye." The ghost of Raven smiled at him and gently laid a palm on his cheek, before dissolving into the air.

Mr Xavier exhaled with effort, and his fingers tightened on the wheels of his chair. He turned in place and departed without a word.

Erik didn't see him again until the following morning, but he was mollified by the fact that Dr McCoy kept him company with an air of a man whose shoulders were freed from a heavy burden. It was a consolation prize, to be sure, because while the doctor was a clever, learned man, he backed away from an argument more often than not and Erik found himself with an undeserved victory. He found he didn't enjoy that as much as he thought he would.

Most disturbing, however, was his desire to remain where he was. Perhaps solitude had finally taken its toll, because he was certain it wasn't compassion that engendered those feelings. He wasn't the kind to make his feelings plain, in words or even in his mind, however, so even with taking Mr Xavier's ability into consideration, Erik was tremendously surprised when Dr McCoy approached him out of the blue, two days later.

"Mr Xavier requires the services of a valet," Dr McCoy said, keeping his voice unnaturally low. "He's a gentleman and he is limited in his mobility. I know it grates on him that he depends on my help."

"You posit that he'd respond better to mine?" Erik set aside the brush with which he was cleaning Banshee's coat and fed her a carrot. "I tried to offer my services, but was refused."

"He can't leave the house unassisted, and I think it would benefit him greatly to interact with the outside world. The people in it, I mean." Dr McCoy coloured slightly, achieving a peculiar shade of purple. "I'm his physician and I know I should have insisted on my advice, but Charles is a persuasive man."

"I did notice that," Erik said, even as Banshee pressed her soft nose to his cheek and whickered quietly.

"At a risk of impertinence, you seem like you aren't in a hurry to leave, and I know for a fact that Charles is a generous employer."

Erik focussed on the gentle amusement in Banshee's eyes and stroked her nose. Money was the furthest thing from his mind, which'd oscillated in the vicinity of the reclusive master of the Graymalkin estate ever since they'd been introduced. To remain here, even in service – Erik didn't much care for idleness and the position of a gentleman's gentleman afforded him just the status he desired: considerable earnings and social invisibility. Mr Xavier, though no doubt used to the finer things in life, didn't seem like he would expect being waited upon hand and foot.

Yet… "He told me very firmly that he didn't want a valet." Dr McCoy gave Erik a long, inhuman look through his very small glasses, to which Erik let out a small laugh. "I see your point, Dr McCoy. I will attempt to persuade your friend."

"Good." Dr McCoy nodded and left, but not before shyly offering a carrot to the horse. Banshee ate it without a fuss, hardly caring that the hand on which the treat was proffered was blue and clawed. Erik patted her on the nose one more time and, having made sure that she had everything a horse could dream of, left in search of his prospective, dare he think future, employer.

He found Mr Xavier by the window in the library, where, if a man positioned himself just right, he could catch a glimpse of the houses in the distance. He hadn't shaved since the first night, and Erik found himself itching to fetch a razor and see for himself whether the skin underneath the stubble would feel as smooth as it looked.

"Mr Lehnsherr," Mr Xavier said, turning to face him. "May I help you?"

"I understand it is I who can help you," Erik said without preamble. "You need a valet. I'm in need of a job."

"I can manage to dress myself, Mr Lehnsherr."

"Opinions on the matter differ."

Mr Xavier flushed. "I was perfectly presentable the other night."

"True," Erik said. Perfectly presentable might even be an understatement, "but you aren't this morning. And while everyone deserves a lazy day now and then, I have a feeling that's not what's happening here."

"I can do it," Mr Xavier said irritably, twisting where he sat. "I assure you, I'm not helpless."

Erik pursed his lips, raised a hand and called a chair to sail across the room and settle opposite Mr Xavier. An iron chess-table followed. "I would play you for it."

"Play me? For what?"

Time for a small gamble. Erik smiled. "If I win, you'll employ me. If you win, I will depart, return the sum I was paid to Mr Marko, and you will never be bothered by me again."

"Now, hold on, my friend." Mr Xavier straightened and caught Erik's wrist. "My refusal has nothing to do with your presence."

"Those are my terms."

"No, they aren't." Mr Xavier had yet to release Erik's wrist, not that it would make a difference, when he held Erik perfectly enthralled with his gaze. "Mr Lehnsherr… Believe me, I would be honoured if you chose to stay, but I don't think you are suited to the role of a valet."

"I worked as a valet." Of course, the man he served had ended up dead, but the situation had been considerably different. Erik reflected on his train of thought and reconsidered the man sitting across from him, who was, by all accounts, a mind-reader.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't notice that," Mr Xavier said, releasing Erik's hand and reaching for the chess pieces instead.

"You don’t seem shocked."

"I was a soldier, Mr Lehnsherr. Death doesn't shock me."

"Many people would argue there is a difference between choking to death due to alcohol intake and a death on a battlefield."

"True, but I'm equally sure there is a difference between myself and an elderly victim of a stroke." Mr Xavier smiled. "I assure you, I can consume vast amounts of alcohol and wake up the next morning with nothing worse than a pounding headache. Come, let's play." His hands skimmed the figures as he considered his opening move, before settling on the Queen's pawn. "Your move."

Erik countered with a cautious advance and, not two games later, was delighted to discover that Mr Xavier was a fierce, cunning opponent, and no twitch above the chessboard could be taken lightly.

"You see," Mr Xavier said, as he took Erik's bishop, but curiously avoiding his gaze, "it's not that I disagree with you. I've taken advantage on Henry's kindness for far too long and god knows I need someone to shake me. However…" here Mr Xavier looked up and didn’t speak.  He couldn't conceal the way his eyes flicked to Erik's mouth and then half-undone collar.

This Erik could understand. When it came to agreement, however…

"I very rarely take no for an answer," he said.

Mr Xavier smiled. "I very rarely let myself be persuaded."

"I'm told I fry excellent bacon."

Mr Xavier arched an eyebrow. The sunlight rimmed his iris until it seemed almost glowing. "You are told?"

"I'm Jewish." Erik advanced his queen until it took the place of a white knight. "I can't taste it."

"Most peculiar condition. Clearly, there is much misinformation surrounding your faith." Mr Xavier advanced his rook and let his fingers linger on its tip, even as he looked up and stared Erik in the eye. "Check."

They played several games that evening, prevailing upon Dr McCoy's generous spirit to provide necessary sustenance. In the morning, however, Erik rose first and took it upon himself to make good on the promise of bacon, and, although employment remained only a possibility, the breakfast had been welcomed.

In Erik's experience, seeking employment wasn't unlike chess. You advanced your pawns, he thought as he willed the breakfast tray to float to Mr Xavier's bedside, be they wood, metal or bacon, until a time came for the figures to take part. And, although Mr Xavier fixed him with a glare, Erik knew that this game he was going to win.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired (aside from pearl_o's delightful story) by that short comic making its rounds on Tumblr, you know the one. _Gentleman's Gentleman_ it was called, I believe. You might spot _slight_ differences between the two. There's dialogue in mine, for one thing. But the inspiration was definitely present, and I assure you, things are moving in that direction. Erik has bacon skills.


End file.
